The Poetry Marathon

Part XXII

the first time I spent time at the bin,
I was never so alone;
three months I spent wailing, praying,
begging my husband to put family first;
in the bin,
I accepted that it was over,
but I had to hang on through Christmas…
for the kids…

– Michellia D. Wilson 8/24/14 5 AM

Part XXI

October,
the month when the monsters
begin to haunt,
drift inside the attic of my body,
the trunk with all these memories,
rattles, begging me to stir up trouble,
I oblige and I soon find myself
in the asylum.

– Michellia D. Wilson 8/24/14 4AM

Part XX

Double X,
less obscene than triple –
or maybe less octane;
Question…
how many parts of a play
can a person adequately portray?
Answer…
as many as it takes to make it
to see another day…
so I’m told…

– Michellia D. Wilson 8/24/14 3AM

Part IXX

So,
he got the best of me;
young, untouched, naïve, conforming…
I cannot have a do over,
now I am pushing fifty,
survived a myriad of physical calamities,
never even entertained filling his spot;
I cannot go through that again –
educated but dumb,
a weakling in strength,
that four year old inside me,
who remembers a mother who didn’t want children,
also remembers a husband who didn’t deserve her;
she wants to forget,
so that the skeins of rope stay beyond grasp…

– Michellia D. Wilson 8/24/14 2 AM

Part XVIII

Letting go of the hands full of flowers is hard,
but their fragrance has begun to choke me,
and I cough so hard,
it pulls the fibers of my spinal cord,
rattling my entire body,
everything is unclear and drowning seems inevitable;

I fight the diseases,
every single moment
of every single day,
and everyone around me says,
hang on – it will get better…

I’ve been hanging on all my life,
it does not get better;
the beatings come in different forms;
I am tired – bruised, bloodied, broken,
I loved with all my heart,
and it was mutilated – put through a meat grinder,
I cried all the tears,
and then some more,
I felt the highest of highs,
and all the increments of feeling from that high,
to the bottom, where sediments lay,
the disease of my brain opening every door on every floor…

– Michellia D. Wilson 8/24/14 1 AM

Part XVII

In another dream,
blood soaked rags are holding
my brain inside my head
and my own gravy is running down my elbows,
pouring onto a dusty ground
that bounces up when the moisture hits;

No doctor can suture the damage done by
life and it’s brutality;
for a few moments,
the music that used to beat me up,
returns – and I am so weak and again…
alone.

– Michellia D. Wilson 8/24/14 Midnight

Part XVI

Einstein said,
space and time are malleable;
they conform to us –

conform,
I really hate that word –
I was taught to conform because
through such,
I will be set free…

is freedom for real?
my inner self wants to go back to age 19
and drink myself insane and love someone forever;

freedom is a law,
and a word that is confusing,
it is not red like poppies,
it is black as unsaved death.

– Michellia D. Wilson 8/23/14 11 PM

Part XV

still deafened by the welling fluids,
my vision is now under attack from like fluids;
tears are falling even though I have
commanded them not too –
a direct command – unheeded – laughing at me;
the poppies take on a new shape through tears,
like ingested peyote buttons,
things begin to morph and confusion increases;

– Michellia D. Wilson 8/23/14 10 PM

Part XIV

In 2000 I fell ill,
literally…
I had to be carried out of my apartment by two policemen,
put in my sister’s car –
I never would have guessed I would soon be paralyzed
from my neck down;
what person ever thinks at age 34 that she will be taken down?
It was months before I made it back to my apartment,
wheelchair bound for years,
and now – 2014 –
still cannot walk very well.

Why?
what has God planned in all this suffering?
I cannot pay my rent,
meat and fruit are luxuries,
no fuel in my truck,
I fall every day,
my bones hurt to their marrow,
I cry every night,
and my brain works on halves –
or maybe I should say bi-s,
manic, sad, manic, sad,
pills of all colors, bitter, nasty,
none of this seems fair;

oh, beautiful poppy field,
take me away…

– Michellia D. Wilson 08/23/14 9 PM

Part XIII

Not many weeks after my prayer offered
to a perfect God,
from the pit of my sinful nature,
my daughter was conceived…
the conception that finally put alcohol beyond my reach,
and my husband became even more irritating;
he was much better tolerated through inebriation.

when early morning breaks,
and I see parcels of light,
break through the venetians,
summer’s end nearing…
I realize that I am still in a war;
I pick a pocket full of poppies,
take in a long, deep breath,
choke on myself and go on.

Go on…
why must I?
Is there a law that says I have to go on?
I mean now,
not then.
Then I was young,
thought I had a chance,
carrying the love of my life,
the same life that would marry
and bring two more loves of my life…
crazy how that works –
life, procreation,
little hands and feet that march on your heart
and create a trail that no briar can cover.

Go on…
why must I?
I stayed with that man until he found sobriety,
I stayed with him faithfully until…
well, even now…
I was there when he decided I was no longer useful
and he cast me aside,
found someone else,
they broke up two homes,
hurt three children,
destroyed my spirit,
and yet,
I forgave –
in his current putrid state,
I can look him in the eyes and know, I have forgiven…
so I ask again,
why go on?
I have no regrets,
I will die a one man woman,
I birthed the perfect, beautiful daughter,
I love and know my two perfect grandchildren,
I love the poppies;
anything red…just like my little grandson;
why fight a war,
when I don’t think there will ever be a winner?
It’s like Vietnam –
no winner.

– Michellia D. Wilson 8/23/14 8 PM